


Wristmarks

by Myxini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmates, Supernatural AU: Not Hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myxini/pseuds/Myxini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels and humans alike anticipate the day when the name of their soulmate appears on the inside of their wrist. But Dean and Castiel don’t need their wristmarks to know that they were meant to be.</p><p>AU in which angels live on Earth alongside humanity and are at constant war with the demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> Geez, I really shouldn’t start another multi-chapter fic when I already have one languishing… but this idea popped into my head and I couldn’t resist. Apologies for the corny summary, I'll probably change it once I have a better idea of exactly where I'm taking this puppy.

_September 18 th, 2005_

_7:23 a.m._

_Lawrence, Kansas_

 

The sun had barely risen, and already muffled shouting echoed up from the kitchen. Dean grit his teeth as he yanked a T-shirt out of the pile of clean but wrinkled laundry heaped in the corner of his room. The walls in this house were too damn thin.

He pulled the shirt over his head and grabbed his jacket off the floor. Now, where the hell were his black wristbands? Ah, there—thrown on a shelf between a stack of ancient _Sports Illustrated_ and some dusty model cars he’d painted in middle school. He snatched them up, grumbling to himself about how he really had to get around to cleaning out his room.

Dean always wore his black bands to work because they were too dark for grease stains to show. Not to mention the color was simple and classy. He wouldn’t be caught dead in the dorky forest greens or navy blues that Sam sometimes wore.

Before he pulled the soft terrycloth over his hands, he glanced, as he always did, at the soft skin on the inside of his wrists. Still blank. He wasn’t surprised, but nonetheless, something sunk inside his chest.

Most people didn't see their wristmark appear. Usually, people took off their bands at the end of the day and boom, there it was—the name of their soulmate, there on their skin. But sometimes Dean imagined that one morning, he’d glance down at his wrists and see the mark appearing; the dark melanin blooming up over the web of bluish veins, forming itself into the flowy letters that would spell out the name of the girl he was destined to spend his life with….

His thoughts were interrupted by a particularly loud string of curse words from downstairs. Sighing, he pulled his bands on, grabbed his keys from his bedside table, and left the room.

In the kitchen, he poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and ducked past his mom, who was storming around angrily slapping a soapy washcloth across the counters. “Those were two of my best shirts, John!” she yelled. “Figures that the one time you lift a finger around here, you’re too drunk to look at the labels before you dump everything in the dryer!”

“You should be happy I even did the laundry!” John yelled back from the front room. “Next time I’ll make sure not to bother!”

“Oh, ‘cause you’re too good to wash clothes?”

“Maybe if you took out the trash once or twice in your life, I’d think about the laundry more often!”

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table through all of this, chewing his toast and staring indifferently into space. Dean plopped down in the chair next to him. “How long have they been at it?” he muttered.

“’Bout twenty minutes,” said Sam.

“Bet you can’t wait to blow this joint, huh.” In a few days, Sam was leaving to start his final year at Stanford.

Sam shrugged noncommittally. “Guess so.” He took another bite of toast. “You should come with me, Dean.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched up. Sam had said that at the end of every summer for four years now. “Can’t, Sammy.”

“Sure you could. I’d move off-campus. We’d get an apartment. You could find work in California. Maybe when I graduate, we can go somewhere else. Move around, see the world a little, until one of us, you know, gets married.”

Sam shifted his arms, and his fingers brushed unconsciously againt his blue wristbands. Some days, Dean was dying to ask Sam whether he knew who his soulmate was yet or not. It could happen anytime after puberty, and considering that Sam had gone through a growth spurt that had given him several inches on Dean, it just would figure if he got his wristmark first. But that was too personal a question, even between brothers. There was a reason people wore bands until the day they married. Before then, who your soulmate was and whether or not you knew yet was nobody’s business but your own.

Dean watched his mother storm out of the room, still shouting. His eyes passed over the aging walls of the house—the peeling paint, the cabients that drooped on their hinges, the baseboards that needed to be patched up. “I’d love to get out,” he admitted to Sam. “But you know it can’t happen. Dad needs me down at the garage. And besides,” he added, “once you graduate, you’re not seeing the world. You’re going straight to law school.”

Sam pulled a face. “Yeah, if Dad gets his way.”

Dean didn’t respond to that, because there was nothing to say. Dad always got his way.

Except when arguing with his wife, apparently.

The front door slammed, signifying that Mary had left for work. A few moments later, John stumped into the kitchen, red-faced and winded. He planted his hands on the edge of the kitchen table and took a few deep breaths. Then he looked at Dean. “You better go open shop. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I figure out how to unshrink clothes.”

Dean’s eyes flickered down to his dad’s right wrist, where he knew the name _Mary Campbell_ was clearly spelled out.

“Okay, Dad,” he said, standing.

\- - -

_5:48 p.m._

_Pontiac, Illinois_

 

Castiel knelt at the altar in the corner of his family’s dwelling, head bowed, speaking fast and low in Enochian.

_"O Father, on this anniversary of my creation, I do pledge to you the next year of my life, as all that have preceded it and all that may follow."_

He had been repeating the same prayer for well over two hours.

_"I swear to follow the noble path you have laid before me; to protect the charges you have entrusted to me; and to act as a conduit of your divine will with every second you grant me upon your Earth."_

His knees ached and his voice had begun to crack from overuse, but he did not falter.

_"O Father, on this anniversary of my creation, I do pledge to you the next year of my life…."_

…

…

At last, the wall clock chimed six, and Castiel let himself fall silent. Gingerly, he raised his head and unbent his spine, wincing a little from the stiffness. He ran his the tip of his tongue over his parched lips, wondering if he had time to fly south and grab some iced tea before his family returned. Angels didn’t need to drink, but there were times when it was kind of nice. Maybe if he was quick about it—

The sound of wings dashed his hopes. He stood, ignoring the pain that shot through his knees, and turned to see his brother Samandriel appear in the middle of the dwelling, black suit torn and rumpled and smears of blood on his face and hands.

“Castiel!” said Samandriel, smiling. He dipped his head respectfully, as all angels did in the presence of their elders, before rushing forward and wrapping his brother in a hug. “Happy birthday!”

“Thank you,” said Castiel. He let a trickle of grace ingite his palm and passed it over Samandriel’s cheek, healing the scrapes and cleaning the gore. “How was the hunt?”

“Not bad. We killed three demons, but a fourth got away.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” Castiel hated missing hunts. But since it was his birthday, angelic tradition had required him to stay in for quiet prayer and meditation, in preparation to kneel before God.

“If you’d come, there would’ve been no survivors.” Samandriel tugged at the fabric of Castiel’s trenchcoat as he pulled away. “You better take this off. Zachariah and Naomi are just behind me.”

Castiel nodded and willed the coat away, trading it for the standard black suit jacket. His parents had not specifically forbidden him from wearing the trenchcoat, but both of them had expressed their disapproval. And Castiel had no desire to cause disturbance. Especially not today.

As Samandriel had promised, Naomi materialized moments later, followed by Zachariah. Both were pristine and unhurt. They must have cleaned and healed each other beforehand. Castiel dipped his head to each of them in turn.

“Castiel,” said Naomi, “have you finished your prayers?”

“I have.”

“Good. I received a message from Uriel’s family. A gang of demons has arisen in Nebraska, so we will bring you before God now and then go directly there to back them up.” She stepped forward and touched Samandriel’s forehead, instantly restoring his body and clothing to perfection. “Come, there’s no time to waste.”

The whole family spread their wings.

They landed in a barren expanse of sand deep in the Sahara Desert.

It was past midnight in this part of the world, and yet it was not dark, because the sky bristled with stars. By their light,  Castiel could see the massive circular symbol, so ancient that none alive could even guess at its meaning, burned permanently into the earth a few yards away, etched in thick black lines that no sand dared cover.

Two thousand years ago, God had created the first angels, set them down upon this very spot, and given them one singular instruction: defend humanity against the demons that swarmed up from Hell. And the angels had obeyed, and they had reproduced, and they had taught their offspring to obey as well. So it had been for centuries.

All angels made an annual pilgrimage to this spot on the date of their birth, so that their Heavenly Father might look upon his soliders and approve of their work. Here, too deep in the harsh desert for humanity to penetrate, was the closest one to get to God.

Castiel had done this many times before. He made to walk into the circle, but Zachariah stopped him with a sharp bark. “Fix your tie! I will not have you looking like a slob in front of our Father.”

Castiel tightened his tie obediently. Then he walked to the center of the circle and knelt. The sand was soft and forgiving against his bruised knees.

Zachariah followed him in and stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder. He spoke in Enchoian: _“Father, look upon the son we share as he enters his twenty-ninth year of servitude….”_

Twenty-nine. Castiel could not quite believe it. So many angels died before they even reached their second decade, and he had almost made it to his third. Only one more year until he was thirty.

Zachariah continued to speak. It was a traditional speech. Castiel was supposed to meditate upon its meaning, but the words slurred through his head. He was too busy thinking about what it would mean when he knelt here next, one year from now.

Angels received their mate assignments, sent from God in the form of a name on the wrist, sometime in their thirtieth year. When Castiel received his wristmark, it would herald a new chapter in his life. He would expected to immediately seek out his intended. Together they would give birth to, train, and lead a new generation of angels.

Proliferating the Army of the Lord was just as critical a duty as fighting. New soldiers were always needed to replace those who were killed in the never-ending war against the demons. And most importantly, the wristmark was the only direct instruction an angel ever received from their elusive Heavenly Father.

Not to mention, Castiel had to admit that he was immensely curious what it would be like to have a mate.

He only had to survive one more year.

Castiel felt Zachariah’s hand lift from his shoulder. His father stepped back, leaving him alone in the circle. God was looking down upon him now. He could not be perceived, but Castiel knew he was there.

He closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer. _Please, Father. I am so close. Allow me to survive this next year of fighting. I want to meet the mate you have chosen for me._

He raised his head to the night sky. The swath of stars glittered brightly, and he thought perhaps his Father was winking.


	2. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and stuff, guys! Just a heads up — this fic will almost certainly update slowly and haphazardly, since classes have started up again for me and I’m a slow writer in the best circumstances. Promise I won’t abandon it. Thanks in advance for your patience!

_October 1 st, 2005_

_8:37 p.m._

_Lawrence, Kansas_

 

Guidry’s Gumbo Shack was a real hole in the wall, with its half-burned out sign and ratty laminated menu stapled to the front door. But the reviews on the newspaper clippings scotch-taped the window made themselves clear. There was no better Cajun food this side of Lousiana.

Dean pushed open the creaky door and was greeted by rush of cool air from the rickety white fan and a shout from the man standing behind the bar. “Dean! Good to see you, brother! I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Sure thing Benny,” said Dean, raising a hand in greeting. The dinner rush had long passed, but the restaurant was never quite empty. Luckily his favorite table was free, so he went ahead and sat himself down. He leaned heavily on his elbow. He was exhausted and pissed off and all he wanted to do was go home, drink himself into oblivion, and sleep for a year.

There was a booth directly in his line of sight, and a young family was having dinner there. The father was laughing as the mother tried to mop ketchup off the face of their tiny pigtailed daughter, who was apparently enjoying her chicken nuggets way too much. It was freaking adorable. Dean didn’t realize he was staring until the father shot him a weirded-out look. He quickly pulled his eyes back in and pretended to read the little card advertising the new chicken fricassee.

True to his word, Benny didn’t keep him waiting long. He plunked a glass of Dean’s favorite beer on the table. “On the house. You working late again?”

Dean grabbed the beer and took a grateful gulp. “Yeah. Lot to do. Dad had to leave early.”

Benny hissed through his teeth. “Huh. How many times has that been in the past three weeks?”

“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugged. “He’s trying his best.”

“I guess.” Benny stroked his scruffy chin. “Either way, an auto repair shop ain’t a one-man show, Dean. You oughta hire a guy or two. This town’s full of kids who’d do your grunt work for a few bucks.”

Dean wished it were that easy. His dad wouldn’t even entertain the idea of hiring more help. “I dunno. Money’s been tight ever since all the crap with my mom.”

Benny wasn’t impressed. “I know it’s been rough,” he said matter-of-factly, “but if your dad ain’t planning to help you himself, he’s gonna have to pay someone else to do it. Come talk to me when he comes around. I can recommend some folks. In the meantime, I’ll throw a little extra spice in your jambalaya.” Benny thumped Dean on the shoulder. “Best get back to work. You take care of yourself, now.”

 

Dean left the restaurant feeling like himself again, partially because Benny was such a solid guy and partially because that jambalaya could’ve woken up a tranquilizied horse. The tip of his tongue was going to be burning for a week.

Outside, it was dark except for the orange puddles from the streetlamps. The air was muggy and humid and so thick that Dean felt like he was swimming in it. Smelled like a storm was blowing in.

Winchester and Son Auto Repair was only one door down from Guidry’s, which was nice. The not-so-nice part was that the building between was an angel house. Most everything about angels gave Dean the creeps, but their houses really took the cake. They were little more than somber gray boxes. No doors. No windows. Dean had heard that no matter where you went in the world, angel houses looked the same. It was like the creepy bastards were determiend the cover the world with the most depressing architecture ever conceived.

Dean passed the thing as quick as possible. Soon, he was back in the good old auto shop.

Winchester and Son was a pretty decent garage, Dean liked to think. It had a big open floor plan and shelves built into the walls with tools and spare parts hung on pegboards or loaded onto carts. There was enough space for four cars, although right then there was just a Camaro up on jacks and an ancient Dodge waiting for some brake work. At the back were the filing cabinets and a big wooden desk and a mini-fridge that probably shouldn’t have been full of beer but was.

Dean went over to the boom box and flipped the switch. An awesome guitar solo blasted out the speakers. Humming along, Dean got to work.

He tinkered with the Camaro for a bit and then got out the big push-broom to sweep the floor but then remembered that he had to get some of the bookkeeping done before the finances got completely out of hand.

The storm began to close in. Low rumbles of thunder shook the building. The radio signal went fuzzy. Eventually, Dean rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock. Half past eleven. The garage’s floor still needed to be swept and there was a massive stack of invoices that had to be dealt with. But it was freaking late.

Dean sighed, got up, and switched off the boom box. Everything else would have to wait until tomorrow.

After locking up, he went round back to get his Impala. The air outside tasted like electricity, and his baby gave him a static shock when he touched her door handle. Dean jammed the key into the ignition and started up as fast as he could. Soon the storm would really let loose, and he really didn’t want to be on the road when that happened.

The sky opened up as he cruised across the parking lot. He flipped the wipers to their top speed as rain gushed down.

He turned onto the road and stepped on the accelerator—

—and then suddenly, there was a deafening thud and a bright flash of pain—

—and then everything went black.

\- - -

Castiel picked himself up off the wet pavement, groaning a little as he felt his bones and blood vessels knit themselves back together. He’d forgotten how much flying into things hurt. It had been years since he’d crashed that badly. He rubbed his head, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.

Tulsa. He’d been in Tulsa, tracking a couple of demons, when a large gang had ambushed him. He’d run for it—spread his wings—and apparently in his haste he hadn’t looked before he landed.

What had he hit? A building? A tree? He squinted through the cold rain sheeting down around him, expecting debris clouds or flaming piles of wreckage.

A car. He’d hit a car. He could see it, a couple hundred feet down the road. The rain slid down its torn metal and broken glass. Of course. He was standing in the middle of a road. Someone had been driving along....

Castiel felt cold. In an instant, he was by the driver’s side door, tugging the handle. The car’s frame was so crumpled that it wouldn't open. He pulled harder, and the metal shrieked and ripped as he wrenched the door clean off.

Through the ragged hole, Castiel could see a man slumped in the seat. Blood trickled from his mouth. Castiel flinched a little as his senses were overloaded with the gory details: _weak pulse; shallow breathing; broken ribs; broken legs; massive internal bleeding; severe damage to the spinal column—_

There was no time to waste. Castiel placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and tensed his wings, ready to transport him to the nearest hospital.

_But why?_

He paused, swallowing. His mind had spat up that wayward question unbidden. He knew perfectly well why. When one came across an injured human, one was to take it to a hopsital. That was protocol.

_But that’s not the best solution._

It was unarguably true. This man’s injuries were severe. He would likely die even with medical help. At the very least, he would be paralyzed for the rest of his life.

_But I could save him._

If only he were allowed to use his healing powers on humans.

_It’s my fault he’s injured in the first place._

Healing humans was forbidden. It was wrong. Any angel caught doing it was sure to be harshly punished.

…

_I can’t let him die._

_No matter what, I can’t let him die._

God loved humans. God created angels to protect humans. Would God really want Castiel to turn his back upon a human in need?

 _Forgive me, Father, if I am mistaken._ Castiel let his grace flow from his palm, and in an instant, the man was whole.

Thunder roared overhead, angry and terrible. A dreadful chill wracked Castiel’s very being. He had disobeyed. He had never been disobedient before.

Was it just his imagination or was the rain pelting down harder than ever?

Suddenly filled with terror, Castiel pressed his finger to the man’s temple and carried him into the nearest building.

\- - -

It was the skin-crawling sensation of being watched that woke Dean up.

He blinked, vaguely aware of water running into his eye. Then he sat up, took stock of the situation, and frowned.

He’d woken up on the floor in the middle of his auto shop with his shoulder stinging and no memory of how he’d gotten there. His clothes were torn and stained with something that looked an awful lot like blood. There was a man he didn’t recognize standing like a foot away, wearing a creepy flasher trenchcoat and staring at him way too intensely. Both he and the stranger were dripping wet.

“Oh god,” Dean groaned. “How much did I drink last night?”

The other man narrowed his eyes and didn’t answer.

Dean scooted several feet backwards before getting to his feet. “Uh, I’m getting way too many French mistake vibes from this, dude.”

It was supposed to be a joke, a stupid over-the-top allegation to make the creepy stranger into the uncomfortable one, but when he didn’t respond and didn’t stop staring either, Dean freaked a little. “Okay, seriously, what the hell is going on here?”

The other man shifted awkwardly, his gaze finally flickering away. “You were in a car accident.”

The scowl dropped of Dean’s face as memories came flooding back. _Right._ The impending storm, the rain pouring down over his Impala, the bright flash of light—

“You were badly injured,” the stranger continued. “Close to death. I healed your injuries and brought you here.”

“Healed my….” Dean glanced down at himself—at his torn clothes, at the bloodstains—and freaked a little more. “Who the hell are you?” he spat.

The stranger met his glare evenly. “Castiel.”

“You’re an angel. Of the freaking Lord.”

Castiel nodded curtly.

“A goddamn angel. In the garage.” Dean clapped a hand to his forehead. “Sonuvabitch. And you… you saved my life?”

Another nod.

“Why?”

The question seemed to freak the angel out—well, freak him out as much as one of God’s robot soldiers could be said to. “I don’t know.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well, thanks, but you seem to have a missed a spot, pal. My shoulder’s killing me.” He pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt, expecting a massive bruise or maybe some road rash. What he got instead was a burn—a patch of flesh seared pink and puffy—in the shape of a handprint.

His eyebrows shot up. “What the hell?”

“Apologies. That must be a side-effect of exposure to my grace.” Castiel took a few steps closer to Dean, tilting his head as he examined the handprint. “I didn’t know it would happen.”

Dean took a few steps back. “So what, I was your freaking guinea pig?” He yanked his sleeve back down over the burn, already wondering how the hell he was gonna explain it next time he got laid. “Look pal, I never heard of an angel healing a person. I don’t know or want to know what kind of crazy crap you feathered dicks can pull, but next time you wanna do a trial run, count me out.”

“Would you have preferred that I let you die?” asked Castiel bluntly. “I had never healed a human because no angel has. It’s forbidden.”

“Then why’d you do it? And don’t tell me you don’t know. That’s bullcrap.”

Castiel opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again and said, “Your injuries… they were my fault. I flew into your path and hit your car.”

“My _car!”_ Dean’s eyes flew wide open.“Crap! Where is she?”

“The car?” Castiel tilted his head slightly. Then he vanished with a fluttery whoosh.

Dean blinked, and by the time his eyelids lifted again, Castiel was back and there was a dripping mass of torn black metal standing in one of the empty spots.

“Aw, no, baby!” Dean rushed over to check out the damage. His poor girl was battered and bruised. Her left flank was smashed in, and the tire had come off the wheel, and there was probably some axle damage, not to mention all the missing glass.

“Can you fix it?” asked Castiel, coming up behind him.

Dean rubbed his forehead. “I can fix anything, dude. But it won’t be easy… or cheap.”

Castiel looked uncomfortable. “I would pay for the damages, but….”

“Yeah, I know. You’re an angel. You don’t have human money. Blah blah blah.”

Castiel bowed his head. “I am in your debt. If you are ever in need of my assistance, just say the word.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, thanks. If I ever need any smiting done, I’ll let you know.” An angel was the last thing he needed, honestly. A lot higher on the list was a new life, or strong drink, or at the very least someone to help him around the damn—

And that’s when he was struck with an idea. “Wait, can you clean floors?”

Castiel looked surprised. He gave a small nod.

“Good,” said Dean. “‘Cause what I really need is another hand around the shop without another name on the payroll. You follow?”

The angel nodded. “You want me to pay off my debt with labor. That seems reasonable.” He lifted his head, resolved. “It is agreed. I will work for you for as long as it takes you to fix your car.”

“That could be months,” Dean warned.

“Such is my debt. Shall I begin now?”

“Nah.” Dean stifled a yawn with the crook of his elbow. “I’m exhausted. I’m gonna towel off and crash in the back room. Come back tomorrow, after my dad leaves.”

Castiel nodded. “Just call me when you need me.”

“Right.” Dean grabbed a pen and sticky note pad off the filing cabinet “What’s your number?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, like a confused dog. “Number?”

“Uh… you know. Like for a phone?”

“Oh. That. I have no phone. Just pray to me and I’ll hear you.”

_“Pray?”_

“Yes. It’s simple. Just speak aloud and direct your thoughts toward me. You can practice now, if you like.”

Dean shook his head. “No way. Not happening. Sorry, dude, but I don’t pray. To anyone, but especially not to the random God-monkey who totalled my car.” He went to the desk and rummaged around in the top drawer. “Here.” He took out a cell phone, punched in his number, and tossed it to Castiel. “That’s a work phone. Belonged to the guy who used to balance the books around here. When I need you, I’ll give it a ring.”

There was a long pause as Castiel turned the phone over in his hands, investigating it closely. “Okay,” he conceded at last. He glanced down at the phone’s screen, where Dean’s contact information was still pulled up. “I will see you shortly… Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah.” Dean scratched the back of his neck. “See ya. And, uh, thanks for saving me, I guess.”

Castiel accepted the gratitude with a nod and whooshed away.

Dean closed his eyes. He waited for a moment, listening to the rain rattling the roof like it was coming from the most luxurious setting of a fancy-ass showerhead, and tried to convince himself that what had just happened was some kind of insane nightmare.

 But no—when he opened his eyes, his poor Impala was still halfway to pieces and his shoulder still hurt from that burn. That burn shaped like the damn handprint of a freaking angel. A freaking angel that he’d given a cell phone and told to come back tomorrow.

Rule #1 of the Winchester household was Don’t Mess With Angels Or Demons. Dean had just smashed that rule to tiny little pieces.

Dad was going to be pissed.

\- - -

 _October 4 th_, _2005_

_9:38 p.m._

_Lawrence, Kansas_

 

It was getting late, but that was okay. The shop was quiet, except for the splashes and squeaks of windows being washed and the soft metallic scrapes of brakes being taken apart and the lonely strains of the Eagles’ second-greatest hit crackling over the radio.

For the first time in a long time, Dean was content. He was beginning to feel that this arrangement with Castiel was the best decision he’d made in a long time.

Dad had bawled him out for it, of course. Dean had told him the bare minimum—leaving out the part about the healing, because, hell, even he was still kinda freaked about that—but it hadn’t helped much. “A goddamn angel?” John had shouted. “Did you forget, when you were making your cute little business deal, that violence follows those turkey vultures around like the plague? Jesus, I have an idiot for a son! Do you _want_ your whole family to wind up dead?”

But later, when he was calmer and less hungover, he’d been forced to admit that it was a practical plan. “Just keep me out of it,” he’d grumbled. “And don’t tell your mother, because she’ll go nuclear.”

So Dean hadn’t told his mom—which was fine, she hadn’t given two craps about what went on at the shop for years anyway—and waited until his dad left to call the angel hotline.

Castiel hadn’t picked up, but he appeared about two inches away from Dean’s face five minutes later. On that first night, he had swept the shop. That was a job that used to take Dean at least an hour. The angel had finished in half that time, and when he was done, Dean could’ve eaten off the floor. The second night, Castiel had cleaned up some of the rusty old tools. Dean had offered him WD-40 and an old rag, but Castiel showed him how he could bust rust with a pass of his hand.

Dean had to admit, having an angel’s superpowers on his side was pretty awesome. Crap was finally getting done, crap that had been left unattended for months. And Dean was finally free to do the work he actually enjoyed. Which was good, because the poor Dodge had been in way too long and needed to be sent on her way.

Her brakes were giving Dean some trouble, though.

He looked up, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “Hey, Castiel!”

The angel paused his window washing and inclined his head toward Dean. He looked a little surprised at being talked to. Which was fair. Besides the quick practical conversations regarding what needed to be done, he and Dean hadn’t really spoken.

“Do me a favor,” said Dean. “Get in here and pump the brakes, will ya?”

 “…Sorry?”

“The brake pedal. I need you to push it for me. Get over here.”

Castiel’s brow creased very slightly. He dropped his rag into the bucket of soapy water and approached the Dodge warily, like he thought it was gonna lash out and bite him. “Dean… I have no experience with cars.”

“C’mon dude, you don’t have to be able to drive to know what a brake pedal is.”

Castiel shrugged helplessly.

“You serious?” Dean shrugged. “All right, get in. I’ll show you.”

Castiel wasn't stupid, but he was a little clueless. He put his hands on the steering wheel in perfect ten-and-two position, and buckled his seat belt even though the car was about as likely to move as it was to start dancing the watusi.

“You ever even ridden in a car before?” Dean asked as he walked back over to the front wheel.

“No.”

“Man, you’re missing out.”

“I have no need. I can travel much more efficiently than a car can.”

“It’s not about efficiency, dude. It’s about the _feel._ You know, the purr of the engine. The response of the wheel. The asphalt laying the whole world out in front of you. You pushing that pedal all the way to the floor?”

“Yes, I am.” There was a slight pause before Castiel added, “Flying is pleasurable sensation too. Perhaps comparable to what you describe.”

“I guess.” Dean stood up, chewing his lip. “Damn it, it’s not working. You can stop it with the brake now.”

Castiel climbed out of the car. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

“You see this?” Dean beckoned Castiel over and pointed out a piece of the brake machinery. “It’s jammed. I was hoping there’d be enough pressure to push it out.”

Castiel crouched down next to Dean and squinted at the mechanism. He lifted a hand. He wasn’t wearing bands—no angel wore them—and Dean felt his face grow hot at the sight of Castiel bare, blank wrists. He was about to look away—he was not the type of guy who stared at another dude’s wrists—but not before he caught sight of Castiel flicking a finger very slightly.

There was a small pop, and the stuck part slid easily out. Dean reached out and took it. “How did you do that?”

“I’m an angel,” said Castiel simply. Dean wasn’t sure, but he thought he could hear a hint of smugness in the bastard’s voice. He laughed aloud, clapping the Cas on the shoulder.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “You’re a natural mechanic.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “No. I don't think so.”

Dean began to reassemble the brakes. The rest of the repairs would be a snap. Then this old girl just had to be cleaned and washed and then she could go home better than new.

“Are you?”

Dean looked up and realized Castiel hadn’t moved from his side. “Uh, am I what?”

“A natural mechanic. Is that what you were born to be?”

Dean let out a bark of laughter. “I dunno, man. I guess. Just about everyone on my dad’s side of the family is a mechanic. I started helping out around the shop when I was, like, seven. My dad’s been telling me about how I’m gonna inherit it someday my whole life.”

“It appears that you do most of the work already.”

“Yeah well, my dad does his best,” said Dean, a little more defensively than he meant to. “It’s a family business. I gotta help keep it afloat, you know? It goes under, we won’t be able to afford to send my brother Sammy to law school.” He went to the fridge in the back and grabbed a couple of beers. “Heads up,” he said, and tossed one in Cas’s direction.

The angel caught it effortlessly. “Alcohol,” he said flatly.

“What? Is it against your Ten Commandments to have a cold one?”

“No. I’ve just never had alcohol before.” Castiel stared at the bottle for a moment. Then he twisted off the cap and took a sip. “It’s… bitter.”

Dean smirked and downed a third of his bottle in one effortless gulp. “Take it slow,” he advised, plopping down on a old cardboard box. "If my dad comes here in the morning and finds you passed out drunk on the floor, he’ll kill both of us.”

Castiel sat on an old metal stool. “Your father dislikes angels?”

Dean shrugged. “Not so much dislikes as… distrusts, I guess. But my mom—she hates you guys. She’d tear me a whole galaxy of new ones if she knew I was even talking to you.”

Cas nodded slowly, staring down at his hands. “I’m aware that many humans feel that way.”

“Aw, don’t say it like you’re so hard done by. I’m sure there are angels out there who’d rip into _you_ for talking to _me.”_

“That’s true. But not because of prejudice.”

“Come on, you’re telling me that there are no racist angels?”

“We were designed to love humanity. Many angels would disapprove of my arrangement with you, but only because they believe that building any sort of personal relationship with a human would jeopardize my work.” Castiel raised his eyes. “Dean, do you distrust angels?”

“Uh….” Dean tapped his fingers against his bottle, thinking. “Honestly? You guys always creeped me out a bit. But you’re the first angel I’ve actually, you know, talked to, and you seem like an okay guy.”

Cas smiled very slightly. “Thank you.” He took a small sip from his bottle. “You are a righteous man.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t regret saving your life,” said Castiel. “I should. It was an act of rebellion and I ought to be punished for it. But I think God would have wanted you on His Earth.”

That pissed Dean off, though he couldn't quite say why. “Dude, you don’t know anything about me,” he snapped. “I dropped out of school halfway through eleventh grade. I’m turning into a drunk like my old man. The only thing I’m good for is fixing cars. So unless your God has a thing for alcoholic mechanics, you screwed up.”

Castiel inclined his head. “You underestimate yourself, Dean. Can you not see how much your family depends on—?” Suddenly, his eyes went glassy and then squeezed shut. He put his fingers to his temple.

“Cas?” Dean’s anger faded. He glanced around, half-expecting demons to explode in through the windowpanes. “Castiel! You okay?”

“I’m needed elsewhere,” said the angel, standing. And before Dean could even half-formulate a response, he had vanished, leaving his beer abandoned on the floor.


	3. November (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right friends, so considering how spare the time I have for writing is these days, I've decided to forgo my original plan for how much of the story I wanted to post at a time. The chapters are gonna be broken down and posted in smaller sections. This means the updates will be shorter, but hopefully more frequent!
> 
> As always, thanks for the kudos! And don't be shy about commenting, I love talking to people.

_November 5 th, 2005_

_Everett, Washington_

_6:32 p.m._

 

Castiel ducked and a blade whistled over his head, so close he could feel the slipsteam tug at his hair.

He lunged forward and caught the demon by the throat, grace surging through his fingers. She let out a final gurgling hiss and was no more. He let the smoking vessel fall to the concrete floor and wiped away thick trickle of blood that was dripping into his eye. Dark jagged shapes loomed around him—broken machinery and industrial catwalks, same as in the hundreds of other abandoned factories and condemned processing plants he’d fought in. Demons swarmed to these sorts of places like flies to old meat.

Motion flickered in his peripheral vision, and he wheeled just in time to seize another demon around the shoulders. Hot light flickered in his palm as he reached for her forehead—but then she shifted, quick and slight, and drew a sword from her belt—and he was forced backwards by the sting of the heat from the holy flame that wreathed the blade.

The demon bared her teeth as she backed up. “You like?” she hissed, brandishing the sword. The flames writhed like sin. “It’s new. My first oil-dip. Gonna christen it in your blood.”

Castiel swallowed, trying to ignore the shuddering of his guts. He drew his own sword and, fingers tight round the hilt, waited for the strike. She toyed with him—drew out the pause, grinning—

—and a sharp pain stabbed through the back of his left knee. He groaned and staggered—the flaming blade swept towards him, but he ducked out of the way. There was a second demon now, who must’ve snuck up behind while he’d been distracted, and who was holding a knife dripping with angel blood. He launched himself at Castiel, blade flashing, aiming for the neck—but Castiel managed to catch the blow with his shoulder. It sunk deep, drawing a tide of blood. Painful. But not lethal.

Castiel grabbed the demon—one arm round the ribcage, palm splayed across the forehead—and smote him. He threw the corpse at the other. She fell under its weight, sword guttering out as it clattered to the floor. Castiel tried to run to her, but his knee was too badly injured to support him any longer—he turned his collapse into a roll and reached her just in time to stab his sword through heart. She screamed once and never again.

Castiel yanked his blade free and sat back, gritting his teeth. Curse his foolishness! That was an old trick he’d fallen for, letting impressive weaponry distract him like that.

 _I could have died. Before turning thirty. Before repaying my debt to Dean in full._ _I almost let myself get killed._

He sucked in a breath and took quick stock of his injuries. The shoulder wound would be fine. It was not restricting his movement, so it could wait. But the knee would not do. Gingerly, he touched the place where the muscle and tendon were torn and tried to knit it all back together. But the knife had bitten deep, and it had been a damned blade, specially forged to injure angels. His grace sputtered and faltered.

 _“Castiel!”_ Zacharaiah’s voice echoed in his head. _“To me at once!”_

Castiel spread his wings and obeyed.

He stumbled upon landing. Zachariah stood before him, with a demon tearing at his shoulders. Castiel’s leg crumpled under him. He could not stand—but as he fell, he managed to twist around and slash. Blood splattered down the sleeves of his suit jacket, and as he hit the ground, he heard the demon scream.

There was the sound of frying flesh as Zachariah pounced upon the demon and smote him. Then he turned to Castiel, face dark. “Get up.”

Castiel scrambled to obey, but his knee would not support his weight. “I’m unable,” he admitted between gritted teeth. He shifted so that his injury was visible, peeking grotesquely through the slash in the blood-saturated fabric of his pants.

Zachariah sighed. He knelt beside Castiel and pressed his forefinger into the wound. Castiel bit back a cry at the pain—then felt a rush of relief as the flesh closed over. He stood, flexing the newly-repaired tendons carefully.

Zachariah tasted the air. _“There are still demons here. Naomi, are the exits sealed?”_

 _“They are,”_ Naomi reported, from somewhere in the maze of offices somewhere at the far end of the factory. _“No demon can get in or out.”_

_“Then join me. Samandriel too. We’ll let them come to us.”_

With a rush of wings, Naomi and Samandriel arrived. The four angels moved into a loose circle—backs in, blades out.

“Let us end this battle!” Zachariah shouted. His voice reverberated through the factory. Echo upon echo until it all died away.

There was a moment of still anticipation.

Then the demons arrived.

There were dozens of them. They spilled from the shadows like the River Styx, and they were desperate. It was kill-or-be-killed, on both sides. Castiel slashed and tore and smote, blade in one hand and grace sizzling from the fingertips of the other. Blood—his own, not his own—splattered down his front. He was watching a demon’s eyes boil in their sockets when he felt the vibration of a cell phone in his pocket. Briefly, the auto shop crossed his mind. He thought of its warm yellowish lights and staticky radio and reached for the next demon.

At last, there was one final scream as Samandriel pulled his sword from the gut of a limp vessel. The body hit the blood-slick floor with a wet thud, and then all was still.

Naomi brushed a smear of gore from her cheek. “It is done,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll report it to the garrison leader immediately. We have done good work here.”

Castiel surveyed the massive ring of smoking corpses that surrounded them. “Good work indeed,” he said stiffly, wiping his hands on his jacket.

Samandriel touched his shoulder, gently drawing his fingers through the ooze of Castiel’s blood. “This is a bad one.”

Castiel inclined his head noncommittally. “Just do what you can.”

Samandriel’s palm glowed, and Castiel felt the skin and sinew of his body repair itself and his clothes become whole around him. The torn muscle of his shoulder twitched, but would not heal.

“Sorry,” said Samandriel. He let both his hand and his gaze drop.

“It’s not your fault. Some wounds need time, especially ones made with good blades.” Castiel healed Samandriel’s own (thankfully minimal) injuries with a gentle touch to the forehead. Deep in his chest, a great twisted knot of anxiety unclenched a little. Healing Samanadriel always had that effect on him, because it meant that another battle had ended and his younger brother was not lying disgorged on the floor.

He wondered with a small pang if Samandriel had a great twisted knot of his own.

Samandriel dipped his head in thanks, and Castiel let his mouth twitch briefly into a half-smile. Then he turned to his parents and said, “Request permission to leave.”

Zachariah, who was scouring blood from Naomi’s hair, raised an eyebrow. “Hasty, are we?”

“I was tracking a straggler outside of Atlanta when you called.”

“Permission granted,” said Naomi, ignoring Zachariah’s look of disapproval. “Return to your duties. Godspeed.”

Castiel dipped his head to her and took off.

He landed in Atlanta and lingered there just long enough to put his trench coat on over his suit. Then he set his course for Lawrence.

Dean’s mouth fell open when he saw the bloodstain blooming on the front of Castiel’s coat. He practically leapt away from the van he’d been working on and ran over as though he expected the angel to collapse. “Holy—Cas, you okay?”

"I’m fine,” Castiel said bemusedly. The concern was almost funny. He side-stepped Dean and headed for the desk.

“Dude, at least let me get you a towel. You’re gonna bleed all over everything.” Dean jogged across the shop to the back room. Castiel heard some cupboards banging open and shut as he booted up the computer.

Dean returned with a ratty but clean towel, a packet of gauze, and a couple of beers. “Let me see it.”

Castiel frowned as he typed in the username and password. “This is quite unnecessary, Dean. I’m an angel. I’ll heal.”

“Yeah, well, in the meantime I don’t want your freakin’ bodily fluids dripping all over my shop. Turn around.”

It was pointless arguing, clearly. Castiel sighed and swiveled his chair so that he was facing Dean, who’d pulled up a stool beside him.

Dean carefully slipped Castiel’s coat off his shoulder. “My little brother used to be stubborn too,” he said as he ripped open the gauze. “He was clumsy as hell, used to bang himself up pretty good. Always said he'd be fine, but... you see your kid brother with scraped knees or cut fingers, you wanna put a Band-Aid on it. You know?”

“Yes,” said Castiel. He was more familiar with internal bleeding and severe lacerations, but he figured the sentiment must be similar.

The white shirt beneath Castiel’s jacket was torn badly enough that the ragged gash showed through. Dean winced and let out a low whistle. “Holy crap, man. The hell happened?”

“We killed a nest of demons."

"Yeah? How many demons is in a nest?"

"Depends. This one was at least forty, by my estimate.”

Dean's expression fell somewhere between disgusted and terrified. "Sorry I asked.” He pulled the top off a beer and handed it to Castiel. “Pour this on it.”

“Why?”

“Cleans it out. Infection’s a bitch, and you don’t know where that demon’s hell-claws were before they stickered you.”

“It was a knife, actually.” Castiel did his best not to sound patronizing, reminding himself that Dean hadn’t laughed when he’d taught him to use Excel. (Well, not much.) “Demons don’t really have claws. That’s just a human rumor.”

Dean shrugged. “Guess I wouldn’t know.”

 _No, you wouldn’t,_ thought Castiel. _You don’t know anything about demons, or wounds, or my body and its healing processes._

Nevertheless, he found himself obligingly sloshing beer over his shoulder. It stung just briefly.

Dean grinned and passed him the towel.


End file.
